


Body

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A little Sam Winchester, a little life





	Body

It has taken years, years of trying to push away painful memories, to reach this point. Drinking myself silly in the local hunter’s bar isn’t making things easier to deal with, only making it harder for me to live without a drink in my hand and different bodies lying next to me each night. It just so happens that the warm body next to me tonight is Sam Winchester. Probably the most consistent fuck I’ve had for the past two years.

Despite two years of being friends, or more like friends-with-benefits, I still haven’t opened up to him about my past. Guilt I feel is the main thing driving me into his arms on a more regular basis. Maybe he is too kind to say anything about it or just too dense to notice . Either way, the lack of either of us stepping forward to ask/answer the unspoken questions about my past leave a giant moat around us. Each of us only letting each other in to glimpse into less depressing and tormenting parts of our lives when it is convenient. Letting ourselves be a part of each other’s routine is enough.

The pattern of hunting, drinking, fucking, and resting as peacefully as our monster infested minds let us become so mundane by this point that adding unnecessary risk is the only way I feel like I can breathe again. Breathe and feel more than the hands of my memories groping my body. Unfortunately, my latest risk, fighting a vampire with only brass knuckles and a grin, has angered the one part of my routine; Sam. His shouting about my reckless behavior and how it put not only myself but them at risk doesn’t reach me. It just sounds like mindless babble. That’s probably why he left fuming after scoffing at me, but I can’t bring myself to follow him. It would be too much work to fake sincerity. Too tiring. I’d much rather drink away the nagging discomfort that I feel permeating my bones than deal with his frustration. So I do.

While the beer and whiskey is plenty in our bunker, it won’t satisfy me. I don’t know anymore if it is the alcohol that I’m becoming more dependent on or the smell of death at the hunter bar. Maybe it is both that are comforting me, making me feel like I’m not the only one rotting away. But, it becomes clear I am more of a commodity that the rest of the trash at the bar; I’m also their release. Two hunters, who look more like bikers than the hunters we usually come across, approach me. The stench of death and booze stronger than the rest. It seems my filth has attracted a duo just like me. Rotten.

“Looks like you’re running low on drink. How about we buy the next round and you tell us your name?” The older of the two says, licking his lips, his glazed blue eyes eating through my clothes. I can almost feel his blood-crusted fingers running against my skin.

“Yeah,” His partner cuts in, “it seems like we could all us a little company.” Without an invitation, or so much as a look of approval, they both sit down. The younger one on my right and the other on my left, boxing me in by wrapping their arms around my shoulder and waist.

The young one pushes aside my hair to reveal my neck, he brings his face close, just close enough that the hairs of his beard tickles my neck. I can practically taste the vomit in my mouth. I push their hands away. Their equally crystal-esque blue eyes harden, infuriated by my refusal. I try to put on a strong voice, saying I’m not up for whatever they are looking for, and go to leave. The older of the two pins me to the bar, his hand gripping my breast over the top of my shirt while the other touches my face. The young one, now also standing with his legs spread wide to balance his wobbly legs, is bursting into laughter, the wrinkles forming around his eyes makes me rethink my estimate of exactly how much younger he actually is. That could be twins, but I’m too drunk now to really see clearly.

“Come on, babe. We’re just trying to have some fun, enjoy ourselves after a hard night a work. You know how it is.” It sickens me even more that I know exactly what he is saying. And that if I was drunker, less attached to the arrangement that Sam and I have, I would have been the one pushing for them to match my pace rather than the other way around.

“Well, you can find some other bitch to screw with,” I give him a swift kick to the balls, the wind that I knock out of him blowing straight into my face, intoxicating me further with the potency of his drunkenness. I spit into his open mouth.

The younger one races to his friend’s defense after I push the groaning man onto the floor. As I leave the bar, trying to hide the trembling in my fingers and bones by walking straighter, taller, I hear one of them yell. “Bitch should be grateful we even tried! She’s not even that pretty. All’s  she’s got goin’ for her is that big ass and those tits!”

As the bar’s heavy door closes, encasing the sound of life pounding away inside, I feel the strength I’d fabricated crumble. Tears stream down my face. The overwhelming need to hide, disappear becomes stronger with every breath. I tug at the ends of my clothes, willing them to become larger, to swallow me whole.

The man’s gruff voice keeps repeating in my head, transforming and mixing with the voice of a girl that is never far from my thoughts, Anne. Her spritely voice saying something similar overtakes the bargoer.

“If you think those boys like you now because you are so cool, you’re wrong. All they want is to buy enough time to get in your pants.” Her smug grin reflected the magnitude of despair I felt. The girl I spent day after day trying to please, getting her books and water when she needed, always threw my efforts back in my face. Belittled me. But, it seems like she had more forethought than my family liked to admit.

After puberty came into full swing, Anne’s words were validated by every male “friend”. They would spend months, one even went as long as one year, God bless him, before waiting to asks for pictures of my tits. One was even sweet enough to offer a trade for a picture of his dick! To him, “pic for pic” seemed like a good enough trade for sexting behind his girlfriend’s back to her best friend. Unfortunately, while they left as soon as a no came out of my mouth, the thrill of the chase no longer worth it, I am still left with this guilt. A shame I can’t shower away. Or cut out of my hair, not even eat away. The sense that my body is my definition no matter how hard I try to show I’m more only growing stronger with every whistle or stare.

I head back to the bunker. My shoes are in my hands and the rough ground is grating away at my sensitive soles. But it won’t go away. Not tonight. With Sam as my shield, I never had long enough to relive Anne’s words, to remember every time a man ogled at me, slapped my ass as I walked by. With Sam, escape was always one kiss away. One look and he’d sweep away the shame from view, at least till I could focus on a case, on something tangible that I can fight and kick its face in. Now, only the quiet bunker and my cold sheets greet me.

Tired, mentally more than physically, I curl under the covers. I still don’t feel safe or free. My skin feels wrong, too tight and obscene to be real. But no matter how much I pick at the backs of my thighs or the curve of my waist the pain doesn’t make it feel more real. The damp pillow begins to stick to my face and before long my sobs are too strong for the fabric or my teeth to hold back. My distressed howls torment my ears, quickening the memories into a tornado of self-hate that pushes me to the limits. I clutch the damp pillow, squeezing it until it would scream if it could speak.

“Please,” I whisper, “Don’t let me wake up tomorrow. I’m tired. I just want to sleep.” I keep repeating those words as the grips of nearly a thousand hands tighten around my thighs, my chest, marking my soul with the fingerprints. Marking me so that I can forever remember that my body doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to everyone else. Sleep takes it sweet ass time to come and dull my senses to the afterimages of people mentally undressing.

I wake to large hands running through my hair, slow and patient. Involuntarily I flinch, ready to fight. Sam’s long hair rests in front of his eyes, obscuring the concern in them, but barely. It only takes a second to hit me once the tense fades from my body. I’m still in the bunker, still in this wrecked body. Their body.

Now even the tears won’t come out. Sam waits, watching my hunched and broken soul quiver in anguish. When I look up, expecting a look of pity in Sam’s face, I find none. He looks as broken as I feel, the dark circles under his eyes more visible than before. I can’t place his expression. It looks like disappointment, anger even, but it doesn’t feel like it is coming in my direction. He just waits for a while, almost as if he seen this happen more than he’d like to admit.

“There are some pancakes in the kitchen whenever you’re hungry.” Sam gets out of my bed, his boxers slowly unbunch as he walks and the wrinkles in his gray t-shirt even out, settling in the lines of his muscles. “Oh.” He turns around and I fear he’ll say the worst thing ever. That he’s there for me. But he doesn’t. “We have a new case, so you should eat up. We’ve got a long ride.” He smiles before closing my door again, encasing my silent wonder.

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until Sam left. My lungs feel raw as I try to wrap my mind around what happened. People often say they are there for you when they see you breaking apart, “I’m here for you”, but they never mean it. They say it out of courtesy or a way to say that they tried. When you actually try to talk, make it known the surface of how deep your guilt of having others come onto you like they have some right to, it always becomes a story of “Oh, that’s because you’re so pretty!” They fail to realize that none of that makes you feel pretty. Not even those “comforting” words.

I chuckle, disappointed in myself. I know, I know!, that some words that some girl from middle school said shouldn’t affect me, I’m an adult, but it still does. And I can still feel it as I change my clothes for the new day. It still feels fresh.

The slight tightness of my jeans against my thighs and chest feels suffocating. I want to throw them off, wear the loosest, baggiest thing I can possibly find. The words fat, thunder thighs, and tens more only intensify as I look in the mirror. I speed walk out of the bathroom, refusing to look at any reflective surface.

Sam comes into view, his back looks tight and his hair has even lost some of its normal luster. I wrap my arms around his waist, breathing in his scent and relaxing. I hope for safety or familiarity but only find a place that feels as hollow and unsure as I do. Sam twists, holding me against his stomach. I look into his eyes and finally place his expression. Tribulation.

I’ve been focused on erasing my fears, my pain, that it was never clear why Sam agreed to be with me, agreed to our arrangement when he has made it clear that he isn’t into flings. There is more than one way to feel a prisoner to your own life and body. Whatever it may be from Sam’s past, it is clearer now that we are both prisoners to the expectations of others. Our bodies are no longer just our own. They own us.

I ask something that Sam seems to have been anticipating. “Do you sometimes wish you were never born? Or, at least, that you didn’t have to continue?” He didn’t answer because he didn’t have to.

Sam stares into my eyes and it is answer enough.


End file.
